


Brothers in Arms (5/5)

by totheletter



Series: Brothers In Arms [5]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:15:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totheletter/pseuds/totheletter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A road trip to Atlanta turns ugly. Belt has a breakthrough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Arms (5/5)

**Disclaimer:** This is, quite simply, not true. Not a word.

\----- 

Three weeks flashed by like lightning. Madison still couldn't flip on a sports channel without seeing some mention or heated debate about gays in baseball, the door he and Buster had opened. He wondered when the novelty would wear off so they could talk about something else, for God's sake.

Late April marked the team's first road trip, out to the East Coast. It would be first time that season Buster and Madison played in front of away crowds. The team was leery about the reactions that awaited them. Security was beefed up, and media interviews were kept to a minimum. Bochy said he wanted as few distractions as possible.

On the flight to New York, Belt ended up sitting next to Brandon Crawford. About an hour into the flight, the shortstop took off his headphones and looked over at Belt. "You sure cut it close today. Didn't think you were going to make it to the bus in time."

Belt puffed out a frustrated breath. "Bochy had me in his office, reaming me for that quote in the paper. Hell, he and Sabean talk like I've done something wrong."

Crawford was surprised. "You gave a quote..."

"Look, the guy asked me, and I'm tired of dodging questions. All I told him was I wasn't sure this whole thing would work. I could've told him a lot more."

"You seriously need to tone your shit down, kid. That mouth is going to get you in deep."

Belt didn't acknowledge Crawford's warning. "They call this a free country. Bullshit."

Crawford rolled his eyes. He slipped his headphones back over his ears and stared out the window.

Four games against the Mets, then two against the Nationals. Posey was glad Philadelphia wasn't on the agenda this trip. He knew he wasn't ready to face the notoriously vile fanbase there. The crowds at Citi Field booed and a few beer cans were hurled Posey's way. It wasn't anything the Giants didn't expect, and stadium security took care of the offenders in short order. The fans in Washington largely behaved themselves, but there were still a few shouts of "faggot" and "cocksucker," sprinkled with some none-too-kind references to San Francisco in general. Next up was Atlanta, and it was anyone's guess what would happen. The series opened on a gloomy Wednesday night. There was some question as to whether the game would take place at all, as heavy rain moved through the area in the early afternoon. But the rain tapered, and the grounds crew got the field sufficiently dry by that evening.

Buster wished they hadn't. He was greeted by boos and taunts of a volume and viciousness that shocked him. Brian McCann, Tim Hudson and Fredi Gonzalez came over the visitors' clubhouse afterward to apologize. Buster sat there at his locker, staring blankly ahead as they talked. He couldn't think of anything to say to them in return.

The second night, Thursday, Belt's solo shot off Eric O'Flaherty in the eighth put the Giants ahead of the Braves by one run. Brian Wilson came in to shut the game down. On his way back to the dugout after the last out was recorded, Buster didn't see the beer bottle thrown toward him from the stands. But seconds later, he felt it. The bottle struck his head above his left temple as he stood at the dugout railing. It didn't break, but it hurt like hell. Posey reflexively jerked toward the shelter of the dugout, and before he could stop himself or regain his balance, he tumbled forward, down the stairs and onto the cold, gritty floor of the dugout. His arms took most of the impact, but he already felt his face stinging with cuts.

Cain was already walking down the tunnel toward the dugout when he heard Posey shout, followed by a thud. He turned around to see the catcher lying on the dugout floor. It took him only seconds to get to Posey, but already a knot of Giants began to form around Buster. Sergio Romo helped Buster to his feet as Wilson clambered atop the dugout, screaming angrily for security.

Bochy hurried back down the tunnel when he heard the commotion. His face carried his fury as he assisted Romo in getting Buster up and back into the tunnel.

"Get Groeshner!" the manager barked at Wotus. The bench coach nodded and ran back toward the clubhouse.

Bochy glanced over at Romo as they held Buster steady. "I hate this goddamned town."

Back in the visitors' clubhouse, Buster sat on a stool at his locker. He hissed as the team's trainer, Dave Groeshner, dabbed at the cuts with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball.

"I know it hurts," Groeshner said. "But the alcohol reduces the chance of an infection. You're not going to need stitches -- nothing that serious -- but we will put a few band-aids on you."

Belt, who missed the whole fracas, came out of the showers and got dressed at his locker. It took him a moment to notice the unusual amount of people and activity centered around Posey's locker.

The lanky infielder cautiously approached the group and peered past Matt Cain. He gasped slightly when he saw Posey's battered face. "What happened? Is he okay?"

Cain turned around and glared at him. His normally calm face was flushed red with anger. "What do you care? You agree with all of those fuckers. You're just like them. Get the hell out of here."

The pitcher's comment struck Belt right in the chest. But he did as he was told, quietly gathering his bag and walking out of the clubhouse, unnoticed by his teammates.

*****

The final game of the Atlanta series came on Friday night. Early in the season, Madison had never been on the mound at the same time Buster was behind the dish. For his first three starts, Bochy had given him Eli Whiteside. Bumgarner didn't like it, but he understood Bochy's reasoning. On the fourth, Bochy penciled Posey's name on the lineup. The battery was all business in that start, and maybe Bochy realized he'd been worrying over nothing. Whatever it was, Madison was grateful. It was reassuring to see Posey crouching sixty feet away. It was like Bumgarner had a strategic confidence reserve sitting right there in front of him.

That Friday night would be his second start with Buster. Given the events of the previous night, he wasn't sure that was such a good idea anymore.

The cuts on Buster's face stung as his mask rubbed against them. The voices of ridicule seemed to rise in volume, drowning out almost everything else. He could barely concentrate on the pitches Bumgarner threw. He stood up and took off his mask, gasping slightly.

"I can't do this."

Bumgarner was too far away to hear him, but he saw Buster stand up. He watched Buster leave the bullpen and walk back to the dugout. He swallowed hard. Something wasn't right.

Posey approached Bochy, who was going over the lineups with Wotus.

"You want to see something?" Buster said. He unlatched his belt and held the waistband of his uniform pants out from his body. There was at least a two-inch gap. "You see this? I've lost four pounds in the last week. More than twelve since Scottsdale."

Bochy was confused. "Buster...?"

He pointed to his eyes. "See these eyebags? They weren't there a month ago. I can't remember the last time I got any good sleep. My hair is falling out from stress. Madison's probably three seconds away from a nervous breakdown."

"What the hell are you talking about, son?"

Posey jabbed a finger into the lineup card. "Take me out."

The manager was stunned. "What?"

"I'm out. I can't do this. Not tonight. I've been brave, Boch. I've been strong. I've done everything I know to do. I'm out of steam." He paused. "Look, it's either Madison or me. And you can't do this without him. We can't afford to skip his slot in the rotation. So take me out, put Whitey in. That's the only way this is going to work."

Bochy nodded. "Okay."

Posey looked down at the floor. "I know what you're thinking. Here's the pansy, buckling under the pressure. Just like you expected."

"No," Bochy replied, shaking his head. "I admire you, Buster. Yeah, to begin with, I didn't like this whole thing. But the two of you went out there and busted your asses for this team. I've read the articles. I watch ESPN. I know what people are saying about you. If it'd been me, I'd have quit a long time ago. But you didn't. And you're not quitting tonight. You're just asking for a break, and if anyone on this team deserves one, it's you."

Brandon Crawford saw Posey taking off his gear and tossing it toward a batboy. "Buster, what are you doing?"

Posey didn't bother to look at Crawford when he responded. "I'm out. They won."

"Who won?"

"Those assholes in the stands. They don't like me? Fine. They made it perfectly clear last night. But I'm not going to put up with it for a third night in a row. They want me out, I'm out."

The catcher pushed past Crawford and stormed through the dugout tunnel on his way to the clubhouse. The infielder raised his arms and let them fall to his sides. "What are we supposed to do now?"

Brandon Belt stood less than five feet away. He heard the whole exchange. The first baseman watched the man in the gray uniform disappear down the hallway, the black-and-orange letters reading **POSEY 28** growing darker until they became invisible. He started forward, then hesitated.

He thought.

He decided.

Belt walked into the tunnel.

Buster sat in front of his locker with a warm, moist towel draped over his head. He heard cleats clack on the clubhouse floor, then a chair being dragged over next to him. Posey hoped the old adage of "If I can't see him, he can't see me" proved true. The chair squeaked under someone's weight. Posey sighed and picked up a corner of the towel, just enough to see who was on the other side.

He huffed and let the towel drape back over his eyes. "Go away, Belt."

Belt didn't go away. "There was this kid, when I was in eighth grade. Evan Connolly. He was in the band, did drama club, all that stuff. I used to hassle him all the time."

"So what."

"So, I did it for a lot of reasons. He wasn't like me. He liked to read. He always wore nice clothes. He seemed...you know." Belt wavered a hand in mid-air to clarify the point. "And my buddies and me, we used to give him hell. Trapped him in the bathroom one day so he was late to class. Small stuff like that. And then, one day, right before lunch, he looked at one my friends the wrong way. We thought Evan was checkin' him out, and my friend, he just snapped. Started whalin' on Evan."

Belt buried his face in his hands. "And I helped. I helped them, Buster. I held him down."

Buster removed the towel from his face and threw it to the floor. "You tryin' to prove you're an asshole? Secret's already out on that, kid."

"No, no," Belt said. "God, I'm doing a bad job with this. I'm trying to say--"

He paused, rubbing his hands together. Buster stared at him, cold and unblinking.

"It's the dumbest thing in the world," Belt said. "Haylee made me this mix for my iPod for the flight over here. And one of the songs was this one from a band I'd never heard before. Dire Straits. And this song -- it's called 'Brothers in Arms.' I didn't think anything about it. But then, I was listening to it on the flight, and I just couldn't get over the lyrics. I put it on repeat and listened to it over and over so I could figure them out. There is this verse -- Buster, I've never heard anything like it."

Belt looked around to make sure no one else was in the room. He leaned in closely to Posey and quietly (and off-key) sang:

_"I've witnessed your suffering_  
As the battle raged higher  
In the fear and alarm  
You did not desert me  
My brothers in arms" 

"Something like that, you know?"

Posey nodded.

"I was too hardheaded to get it. Last night, when I saw what the fans were doing...when I heard what they were saying about you and Madison. Jesus, Buster, I don't know how you lasted this long without snapping. But I still didn't get it."

Posey shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't understand. Are we getting close to a point, or...?"

" _I get it now_ ," Belt said. "I got it when I left the stadium last night. I thought to myself, 'Those guys in the stands tonight were the worst assholes I've ever seen.' They threw that bottle at you. Cain said I wasn't any better than them. He was right. _I'm_ the asshole. Cainer doesn't hate anybody. But I think he hated me. And it was the worst I've felt, probably ever, in my life. You, Madison, me, Timmy, Cainer, all of us -- we're brothers in arms. We're supposed to stick up for each other. But here I was, tearing you down. Just like I did to Evan Connolly."

He gestured back toward the tunnel that led to the dugout. "You can't let those mouth-breathing, worthless fuckers win. You can't."

"So...what're you saying?"

"I'm saying I'm sorry."

Posey nodded, absorbing the apology. "Huh."

Belt hung his head. "Yeah."

"Apology accepted."

"Wait, what?"

"I accept your apology."

Belt was taken aback. "Buster, I said some pretty shitty things about you and Bumgarner."

"I know you did. And I'm not gonna lie. It hurt both of us. I'm not saying I'm going to be your best friend. I'm saying I accept your apology."

Bumgarner's plaintive voice broke into the conversation. "Buster?"

The catcher turned around in his seat. Bumgarner stood in the doorway. "Yeah?"

"Boch said you took yourself off the lineup."

Posey's head dropped a little. "I did."

"You're gonna leave me out there by myself?"

"No," Buster said, standing up. "No, I'm not."

Belt stood up, too. "I got your back, man. From now on."

Buster nodded silently and walked back to the entrance, patting Bumgarner's broad back and ushering him gently back to the dugout. Belt followed close behind. A Braves batboy was collecting his catcher's gear, preparing to put it away.

"Hey!" Buster barked. "Gimme that gear!"

Alarmed by the catcher's tone, the batboy immediately dropped the equipment on the dugout floor and took off in the other direction. Buster walked over to the abandoned pile of orange-and-black plastic and pulled a shin guard out of the pile. He sat down and strapped it on.

Bochy saw what was going on and ambled over. "What're you doing, Posey?"

"Changed my mind, Skip. I was assigned to this lineup, and I'm staying in this lineup."

He looked over at Bumgarner, who gave him a subtle smile. His manager smiled too, crinkling the lines around his eyes. "All right," Bochy said. "I'll make the change."

Bumgarner sat down next to Buster. "What were you and Belt talkin' about?"

"Something about a kid he knew in junior high school, a band he's never heard before this week and brothers in arms," Posey replied. "Somehow, that all adds up to an apology."

"He apologized?"

"Yep. Here, connect my chest pad in the back, would you?"

Madison complied. "I'm nervous, Buster. About tonight."

"It's not going to be easy," Buster said. "And they may all be this tough. I don't know. But we're baseball players. What else can we do, but play baseball?"

He tapped his catcher's mitt against Bumgarner's chest. "C'mon. Let's go play baseball."

They jogged out onto the field with the rest of the team. Buster got into his crouch behind the plate, hearing the taunts cranking up already. Jason Heyward was the leadoff hitter that night. When he reached the batter's box, he asked Buster if he was all right after the previous night.

Buster looked up at him. "Just another day at the office."

Heyward laughed. "Man, I wish I had your balls. You're strong."

Buster looked out to the mound, where Bumgarner waited. He was all business, stone faced and angry. The way he should be. Buster threw down a sign. Madison nodded.

"Strength comes in numbers, Heyward." He squared himself up and stuck out his glove.

_THWACK!_

_"Steeeeeeer-IKE!"_

"Strength in numbers."


End file.
